Vanish Into Dust
by MythCreatorWriter
Summary: "The first time he saw the monsters was at the meeting three days ago." England can see the threat and one by one, his fellow nations vanished. When only America and him are left, rash actions are taken.


The first time he saw the monsters was at the meeting three days ago. England poised himself in one of Germany's stiff chairs. Clouds covered the sunlight from the windows that reached the sky. He figured the main reason Germany could present uninterrupted was because America was asleep. The time difference affected him more than his more European connected brother. And the bloody git had stayed up late playing one of his video games. America told him which one but he didn't bother to remember, one of his American shooters.

England's foot twitched to kick America in the knee to wake him. America could be cute when he wasn't blithering his loud mouth. He slept the same, hands under his head with a wide grin. England turned back to the screen with the world map.

"What is that?" England shot up and pointed by New Zealand on the edge of the map.

Germany stared and all open eyes were on England. Nothing new to him. He was the largest empire on Earth two centuries ago.

"You don't remember your own former territory, Angleterre?"

"If this is your idea of a joke, you will be sorry." He didn't bother to make eye contact. Bloody hell, why was France always next to him? England kept his eyes on the screen with a corner covered in black.

"What are we looking at?" Italy's head moved like he was following a laser pointer.

"Nothing, Italy. There is nothing there." Germany gave England a pointed look, his fingers tapping his forearm.

China leaned in his chair with his arms crossed. England could see the past tension of the Opium Wars even in all his collected control. "Can we get on with this?" Next to China was Russia with his ever-present blank smile. He kept his pipe hidden, possibly under all his layers of clothes.

Canada sat at the end of the table, tilting his head. His quiet voice didn't speak up. Japan posed by Germany with a similar expression, glancing at the screen and back to him. "What it is that you see, England-san?"

The dark corner remained, no matter how many times he looked. Yet another familiar scene of everyone marveling at the delusional country, and once again, England didn't care.

"Nobody sees that?" He pointed right at the spot. There was a loud silence that filled the room since that never happened when they were together. He got to the edge of an already vain attempt and fallen off. England sighed. "Excuse me," he said, pushing up from his seat. Fishing his Smart phone out of his pocket, he took his call in the hall. Italy's voice chimed above the rest before the door closed, wondering if they could take a nap.

That was when the mist of phone calls and meetings started. Of course New Zealand didn't listen to the crazy man nor could he see what England saw edging near his shores. Alarms went off when all communication was lost from New Zealand and his people at the meeting. Each word from England about the country covered in darkness evaporated into the mass. Each hour, the darkness moved. More countries lost. England's insides zapped with panic from his fellow country's and ones from his own people.

Anybody who travelled to the countries covered would become unreachable. The further they got, the more the static-like quality fizzled on the globe.

They reached Japan's waters. Each country had to go back to comfort their people, communicate through Skype, pulling them apart. When their group exited the room, England called for Japan by the door. The white of the walls and black of the furniture blended into Japan's appearance. He told Japan to evacuate himself and his people.

"I will take time to consider that." England knew him long enough to know that meant no. He rubbed this face, trying to erase the sick feeling and traitor liquid threatening to leave his eyes. Traitor words leaked out instead.

"I appreciate having you as a friend, Japan." Japan's usual unrevealing face bestowed a smile.

"Thank you, England-san. I appreciate you as my friend too."

The beginning of his unsettled sleep started that night. He rolled to his desk from his bed the next morning to find messages. Japan was gone.

Mist grew to steel, holding him up for his people. They were his strength. He memorized the light and dark circles of the wood in his office, waiting, arms stuck on the rests. Nothing he said mattered. India, China, Russia. After China he didn't bothered to answer his phone. Darkness took over. Every thread of his past with them broke. None of that mattered. The creatures went in a circle and enclosed them. Canada, Seychelles, Egypt, Turkey.

His foot refused to stop moving even when he forced himself to sit down in his jet. He and his people were becoming a closer target. They were near France's borders. Within eye sight, England could see clouds blend together and watch the bug movement of the darkness on his phone.

France stood with his back turned toward the English Channel. England took a step and fumbled from the limo, sighing. No room checked out. He yelled at his pilot to fly. All that filled his mind were those creatures, seeing them move a millimeter when he blinked.

The dying sun haloed around France's body. England called his name and the wind answered. The other nation turned his head. England wanted to smack that surrendering smile off his face. He marched and yanked his arm.

"Come," was all he could order. The smile turned softer and England's fist moved without permission.

France caught his fist. All their centuries of fighting must have caught up and made him predictable. A sigh and a laugh fell, broken to the ground. The need to hit left his body empty.

He wasn't several hundred years old with countless wars and a former empire. He couldn't even touch the top branches of his trees. Rain fell on the veins of leaves. Bushes provided cover to the sky that lasted forever, buried in the earth from the world. Purple and blue plotted his skin yet again from his brother's stones. He clung his knees to him when he heard a sound. France had shorter hair then, the glow of an empire to him. France had smiled then as well and he followed, climbing on his back and clinging to his neck.

The sun glowed to the end. England searched his face for something he couldn't name. "You are not allowed to die."

That laugh lifted from the man. England hated that laugh. The sound of happiness had no place by the ocean separating their lands. He couldn't watch France as he spoke.

"But what can I do? I have to stay with my people. They are the wind beneath my sails." He laughed again. Stop that, England pleaded, his eyes on the deep waters. "How strange. Blood on my ground by my own people in their terror. Germany's tanks on my line. You and I had fought so hard to the end."

England shot his head up. The hair on his arms froze up. Air was still and oxygen caught in his chest. He forced his head back, swallowing the dry, hard feeling in the back of his throat. "Please come with me..."

A head shake was his answer. He threw his arms around his neck, leaning against him and holding tight. Damn man always smelt like cologne and roses. France held him back, beard scrapping on his cheek.

England didn't remember walking away. Had he been crying then, or had that happened when his body finally collapsed in the back of the jet?

He didn't need his phone hours later to know what it held. They continued, those creatures, over the ocean he fought Spain on. That damn smile was gone as well. His body held no more tears.

Fog from the streets seeped into his senses. He was an island, always an island. When the wind stopped on his windows, he stared out. His phone glared at him from the night stand and his hand reached out. His body was reacting without him, calling and speaking to America.

"Dude, you gotta get over here." America said he held the solution.

The darkness had taken most of America's country; the parts England use to own were left. Black covered everywhere. The United Kingdom (Of Great Britain and Northern Ireland), Ireland, and America were left. In two days, the world had disappeared. He covered his country with a protective circle before he left.

England stared off when America waved him from the jet. Conversation fell silent like the earth had become. Sights blurred on the way to his house. He ran a hand over his dress shirt and black jeans, a reminder that he was alive.

He glanced at the graphics on America's computer, hearing the rhythm of his accent, pointing to each colour and line. The room was dark, save for the strip of light from the closed curtains. Clothes thrown to the sides of the room, Red Bull cans and coffee cups piled and empty on the computer desk. Nodding, he let his comment about cleaning up die in his throat.

His magic could work from across the pond, draining his energy. That was all he could think to do—too late to save everyone.

"Oh shit. I need more coffee." America announced to the screen lighting his face. He got past the door frame and unease stung in England's stomach.

England said from behind him, "Being alone isn't advisable." He didn't respond. England didn't expect him to.

Dust America didn't bother to clean shifted down the hall. All the walls were white and crisp with no curve of tradition. None of the walls had any part of the past. Reaching windows from the current century down the stairs, coupled with steel and chrome instruments in the kitchen. England cringed at being reminded of how old he was.

America yawned for the third time. England broke the silence, "You need sleep." Shadows faded his face even in the light. His eyes squint and blood-shot from staring at the computer screen for hours. And colours on his sports jersey, washed out.

The laughter England heard lifted the heavy feeling in the air. "Nah I don't need any." America readied his coffee pot, gathering the grounds. England took the powder from him.

"You look exhausted. When was the last time you slept?" America hummed in thought. "Doesn't matter. Sit down." When America did just that, England paused. The last time he listened without speaking was when they were both younger. Instead of a chair, America hopped unto the counter, kicking his feet.

"It was about a day or so ago. I dunno. But I'm almost at a break through. Then I can sleep all I want!"

England muttered, "No, you can't. You have responsibilities..." He kept away from America's legs, pouring the grounds and water. Gathering tea leaves that he brought, he plugged in his tea-pot. America barked out with a laugh.

"What the hell is that?"

"Bloody tea-pot, you git. You have one."

"Yeah but...that one's all fragile looking." He pointed to the flower design along the bottom of the glossy pot.

"What are you implying?"

"Eh nothing." America kept a grin on his face. England gave a throaty scoff, turning his shoulder to the other. He hadn't heard joy in ages... His mind concentrated on the leaves. "Hey England, have you ever been around when that thing is near?"

England studied him. His former colony had a habit of switching topics to the point of whiplash. "I reckon not." He crossed his arms at America's snickers. "What now?" America picked up one of the accents in his country.

"Reckon. That's just funny." Right, England had forgotten. America operated in his own bubble at times. Turning his head, America focused back with his usual voice. "No, I meant...do you know what it feels like when it's near?"

"I'm not sure," England replied. "Have you?"

"Yeah..." He gazed above. "Have you ever been in a place where there's going to be a tornado?"

"I can't say that I have much." America got more tornadoes than any other country on Earth. England only saw a few in his lifetime.

"It's really weird. Everything stops and it's quiet like someone hit a pause button." The coffee maker chirped and he went to hop off the counter. England shot up a hand and pointed to a chair. Once again England was left to marvel at the silent command being taken without question.

"I really do have to get to work so...can I just take this in my room?"

"You can take a few minutes of rest. You've been working non-stop since I got here." England reached to grab one of the coffee cups at the top of the cupboard. He gripped the cup tighter than necessary. He had to make himself taller...even if it was a mere centimeter... Bloody tall Americans. "Bloody hell why can't you put this at a more convenient height?"

"Are you too short to get it?"

England spun around, striking him with a glare. "You are mere centimeters taller than me, you bloody git. Stay there and bloody relax. You are lucky I am feeling charitable at the moment."

"But the hero doesn't need rest."

"Even Superman rested."

"Not when he had to defeat Lux Luther, or the twin clones of Hitler."

"Fucking what?"

"Yeah, that actually happened." America sprung from his chair, grabbing the entire pot of coffee and cup from England, who blinked and caught his wrist. "You coming with me?" America jerked his arm in a test, lifting England's arm in the process.

England stopped, attempting to understand what happened, with the situation or himself, he wasn't sure which. Or perhaps why the will to stop him evaporated into the fluorescent lights. Words filled his throat. "Do you truly believe you can save everyone?" America had the strength to pull England with the difficulty of a feather. Yet America stuck, staring back at him with the same stare he gave the computer.

Tea summoned him. England let go of America's wrist and started the motions of filtering the leaves. He dared America to move from his question. And he needed a bloody drink. Opening the refrigerator, he removed the rum he brought. America's spirits were either weak or a fool's death. England kept his hand on the neck of the bottle. "America?"

"Well what kind of hero would I bet if I can't save everyone? Besides, I'm the hero, of course I can! It's what I do. I helped you guys during World War II, didn't I?" His hands tightened on the bottle, not feeling up to educating the younger nation beyond select words.

"Contrary to what you may believe, we were not bloody helpless before you waltzed into our affairs." Uncorking the bottle, he jerked the rum into the tea. England took a swig of the rum alone and picked a spot to sit, crossing his leg.

He closed his eyes for a moment to take in the tea, peering up with a pointed command. America turned to the front of the house and back at England. A sigh heaved out, and America slumped down across from him, placing the pot on the table with no noise.

England's bottle on the wooden table echoed, two deep sips of tea followed by a long gulp of the rum. He kept glancing at the man across from him. America's shoulders caved in. He didn't gaze away from his cup. England stared, not knowing what to fix.

A shift in his leg reminded him of the bump in his pocket, his cell phone. England whispered, "Bloody fucking hell..." He lifted the device out and each second his fingers touched the metal made the realities freeze over him. He sat the cell phone in the middle of the table. "America, they are coming closer." They were a few hundred miles of where they sat. "I can't protect all of your country but I can provide protection for this house in the meantime."

"But won't that exhaust you?" England must have told him about the circle around his own country. That was eons ago in the thick of combat.

"I will be fucking fine. Besides our options are limited." He stood up and sat the tea-cup to garnet of the counter. The click haunted the room. "Right now isn't about saving anyone. It's about survival."

"You know, you hold tight for an old man. Can I come with you?"

"I am not old," England pocketed his phone and flew to the bottle's opening. Wiping his mouth, he slammed the bottle down and met America's unchanged expression of blinking curiosity. He ran a hand through his hair. "Yes I suppose why not? Do not get in my way."

"Alrighty Captain." America pushed his chair, leaving his cup on the table. No longer caring, England led the way outside of the kitchen.

England heard each step on the wooden porch. He gazed to the sky when his feet hit the grass. Golden hues hidden behind the purple twilight. He hated how the serenity mocked him.

Wind brushed him. No birds, no insects, only the wind to answer. Silence was a blanket he pulled over him. But the silence at America's home was not natural, nor anyone's choosing. The air breathed and made him stand alone.

England stopped mid-walk on America's yard. The hairs on his neck stood, sending a familiar shiver to his insides. He fished out his phone to confirm. When he looked again, all he saw was black.

Black substance floated toward them. Particles waved like wings yet not solid enough for feathers. On his screen they appeared as one force but up close, each creature stood out. Claw shapes formed on the ground. A griffin's mane dissipated into the collective. Talons of an owl were rough enough to wrap around his fingers, for only a moment. He heard the slow beat of silence.

England turned to a hand that clasped his arm. "England, dude—" Did America see them form in and out of shapes in an intricate dance?

One flew from the throng, a robin. America continued to shake his shoulder but his words faded. His hand rested out for the robin. Darkness behind the bird swarmed, all the sights from beyond gone. The robin fluttered to them. All breath rested in England's body and yet a prickling sizzled on his skin. The robin turned to America, who was looking at him.

"Get back." England pushed America behind him. He spoke Latin under his breath for concentration. His palm pointed ahead until heat gathered and shot out as fire toward the robin. There was no sound yet an empty howling pounded his head. Dust spread like an eagle and formed back to the collective.

"What the...? England—?"

"They are closer than I expected." America swung his arm to shove the phone in England's face.

"See this?"

He wanted to shove the item in America's face and drag him away. Being so close to them put his nerves on alert. But his eyes viewed the screen.

White swept over the world with flashing dots for lightning strikes in the clouds. "What is that?"

"Whatever is covering the world has an electric current. Did you hit one of them, when you did the fire thing?"

"Yes." Black dust nestled to the tip of his circle, never-ending. "What happened?"

"Well when you did that, the currents got brighter and the last to light up was this spot here." America pointed five centimeters from where they stood. England tore to him.

"Every creäture has a centre. If that is destroyed...Is this what you've been working on?"

"Well...Japan and Germany and Russia, and anybody else I could get ahold of." England's blood drained."I tried to get ahold of you but you never answered." Japan and France's smiles haunted his mind.

"How do you get there?"

"I haven't figured that part out yet...but now that I know fire can hurt them—"

"I'm going in." England swallowed and clarified. "It's not fire. It's magic in the form of fire. Magic can hurt them."

"No, no, no, that's okay. There's another way."

"What is it?" When America didn't respond, England walked to where the stars and darkness met. He deleted all his messages without listening to them. Why listen when he knew what they said? He had to do one thing right.

A grip on his wrist stopped him. He jerked around to face America.

"No, no, no," America attempted to laugh away the shake on his grip. "You don't have to do that." Every line on his face stood out. "I don't want you to die." England paused the world, distant from the events plaguing them. He turned and secured his hands on America's shoulders.

"Now when have you known me to die? I'm a former pirate and British empire, twice over. I don't die." The lines on his face were no longer there. Perhaps he imaged that look...

America flipped his phone to show him a graphic. He magnified the centre to show white sparks swirling in a cone shape, pointing near the top of the screen "You gotta shoot there with your fire-magic thingy." The phone lowered and America lifted his head. "Well I'm coming with you anyway—"

"No, you are not."

"What's better, one person or two working on this, dude?" As much as he did not want America anywhere near those creatures, he was staring at a brick wall. And England didn't know how long they had. "We got this, dude." England checked his phone one last time, stopping all of his breath. Dead eyes gazed at the image before him. "Wait, what's—"

"America. My country is gone."

"What? That's—" America took England's cold hand to adjust the phone.

"Without my people, I'm not alive...Why am I still here?"

"But...you had your country covered..."

"When I left." His circle did not protect them. He had not protected them. "America," He had to keep speaking his name to remind himself that he was alive. "They cannot be dead if I'm still here. I'm still not dying."

America nodded. England squeezed the hand on his shoulder and his feet carried him.

The darkness stopped at the white fence. With each step, England focused to hear America's foot steps next to his, not knowing when the last time will be.

Dark particles swirled in alternate patterns, nonreactive to either of them. Wind flow stopped ahead. America stuck his hand into the darkness. England grabbed his arm, staring at where his hand fit in at the wrist.

"Huh, it's not doing anything." America moved his fingers, unaffected. They fluttered around his skin. He reached his arm in up to his elbow. "Hey it's safe!" Before England reacted, America took his arm and yanked them both inside.

England took back his arm and glared, holding the arm America touched. "That was completely foolish. You could have gotten us both—"

He turned to where America was looking. Citizens, walking on concrete. Cars lined up with the lights of the streets. England saw America's face brighten, lines vanished with no trace. Behind them was America's house. The air smelt the same and yet England was left with an empty after taste. Bright colours drawn, created by otherword hands.

"America—"

"We did it!" America held up his phone. Nothing on the world inside the screen. The world untouched, from what? What was he even going to say?

He rubbed his forehead, feeling his stomach drop. "What were we do again?"

"Eh I don't remember. Hey bro, what's up?" The phone pressed by his face, gazing up at the sky. Were the stars real? England shook his head. His fingers twitched, getting out his own phone, missed messages from Francis—put that off until later—and Japan.

A sliver of memory told him he had something to do. They always accused him of being absent-minded. Lights from the streets blinded him. No smell of petrol or aged brick in the air. Fresh drifted like perfume. England studied each blade of grass, meticulous placement for an effect. They said he didn't know what was real, that he saw creatures and events that didn't exist. They were wrong.

Iced realization smashed into him. What he was seeing wasn't real.

In a blink, his vision grew static as if he was viewing everything through a broken television. People melting before him. Shapes stretched and at the edges, black dust drifted off.

England's hand went for America, turning when the arm he gripped didn't feel solid. The hand was transparent white and glowing. A moment to see blue eyes on him.

He jumped and saw his arms wrap into the air; black particles flew from where America had been. His eyes hurt, lifting himself up, stumbling for a balance. His hand shook, imagining a hand intertwined with his.

Colours bled into one another. His mouth open. Nothing came out. Nothing was real...

Legs ran. Black particles formed and the pain hit him. His eyes shut. Every particle sliced him, a blade on every visible part of his body. He wobbled and pushed his aching body forward. He didn't deserve protection when he failed.

He didn't know how fast he ran. The iron smell of blood surrounded him.

Skin scrapped away. Each step made him suck in a hiss; tears gathered around his eyes. Pain numbed to the point body parts were imagination. Getting on his knees—first step to never moving again. They wanted submission.

He allowed himself to remember America's words, centre, stillness. He unfrozen his arm and cringed. Beyond the wounds, the darkness had settled. No more cuts. Energy gathered in his palm, allowing his mind to feel. Magic heated his palm. He lifted his arm. America's words echoed: Shoot the top to destroy the centre. And he shot up.

The shift, as if England walked from one electric current to another, a soft pulse under his feet when he moved between the realm of mortal and fae.

Commotion of cars and the rhythm of people through tunneled ears. A faint hint of alarm; eyes trapped together.

Something solid around him. He recognized the edge of consciousness. Pressure caved his chest. Shallow breathes, close. A familiar voice around his ear, strong body spray...

England knew the sigh was from his own lips. And when he grew to awareness again, he listened.

No voices but breathing next to him. Recent cleanliness above conditioned air. A distinct smell. He was lying down in America's home. He opened his eyes. New wood and polished white on a high ceiling. France in the corner of his vision, watching him.

England traced the circles above him, controlling his breathing. No artificial reality had dust. He allowed his tired throat a mutter to break the spell.

"Why are you here?"

"You were ill and in need of my help. America called me, lament on the sorry state you found yourself in. I came to ease his weary mind and provide assistance since I have found you in such a state many times, after I turned my back to look, of course." France gestured with his hand and the tilts of his head. England covered his mouth, laughter leaking out.

He pulled himself up, sitting on the corner cushion, grinning despite himself. Although the bonus was seeing these uncalculated reactions play on France's face. France's hand met England's forehead, almost with a sound.

"Are you sicker than I thought?"

England shook his head, grabbing his wrist. "No, I can assure you I'm perfectly fine. What were my conditions?"

Nations do not die like their people. He'd woken up from deaths that ranged from drowning to decapitation, waking up in the woods where the trees protected him when he lost his head. He never needed to know the process, apart of his existence that needed no explanation. He felt the process electrify him to life on occasion like jolting awake from a dream.

Each nation made sure anybody's citizens did not see their nation injured.

"Well by the time I got here, all the blood taken cared of. America was the one who washed the red from your hair and took you away from the outside where you collapsed. He said you appeared out of thin air with gashes on every part of you." France looked at him for an unspoken question, or for how England's fingers felt the pulse under his skin. Rough, with fine hairs, and alive in front of him. France continued his unfazed gaze. "You are free to enjoy those clothes as I have."

England pinched the shirt he wore. Tight, wine coloured shirt with a plunge to the middle of his chest. No buttons to give him the option of concealing, and white jeans.

"Why am I wearing your bloody ostentatious clothing?" He kept pinching around the shirt like the more he did, the more they would disappear and he would be back in his own clothes. "I have clothes that I brought with me. Why did you put me in these ridiculous garments when I was unconscious?"

"You put it so crudely, Angelterre." Damn flashing smile. The damn man reminded him why he couldn't stand him nine days out of ten. His arms crossed, knowing his glare lacked power. "I've dressed you many times in the past—"

"We were children, and I didn't like it then."

"You have never been able to appreciate style. You should thank me for updating your horribly stuffy wardrobe. This," France waved his hand as if to an invisible audience, "is better suited for you."

"You are flattering yourself," England started, jerking his head to see America by the open door. A grin broadened America's face.

"Good to see you're up finally dude. France was really worried." France let out a sound between a grunt and a cough, his French version of a scoff. "You called me, all worried about him, man. Wondering where he'd been." The question lingered in America's stare yet remained unasked, flopping his shoes by the door. England remembered, the unreal surroundings and America's disappearance. There were no words he possessed to explain what that place was, like explaining the world behind the veil of mortal to ones who hadn't been there. He closed his eyes and cleared his throat.

"Yes, regretfully in these clothes. You didn't stop him from dressing me."

France remarked, "You act as if I ambushed you."

"You dressed me when I was unconscious."

"Would you prefer to be naked?" France's easy smile didn't reach the light in his eyes.

America either didn't notice the argument or acted as if he did. He avoided looking at him, biting his lip. "Well I already...washed and he brought those and..."

"Oui, he's embarrassed," France turned his head to watch America walk behind them. "He hasn't seen you naked since the two of you were young."

England watched America's face flame to his glasses, and he laughed. The sound bounced off the house.

"Is it normal for him to lose it when he wakes up from that?" America asked France.

"Contrary," England begun, pushing himself up and walking around the sofa. "I did lose it. I lost everything but I have it back now." He stopped in front of America, the image of him evaporating into dust clotting. The first sensation was his arms around America's neck, not even knocking him back. He remembered that body spray. He kept gripping, neck, shoulders, hair. And he wasn't dreaming.


End file.
